Burn Out Not Fade Away
by The Cat's Whiskers
Summary: Wanted: a wonder-weapon that works without whumping the good guys...But cliches are cliches because they're true...just like things that sound too good to be...?
1. Chapter 1

Atlantis

**Disclaimer:** not owned by me, no money being made, etc.

**Summary: **A wonder-weapon that actually works without whumping the good guys? But clichés are clichés because they're true…like things that sound too good to be?

**Rating:** T…oh angst, baby, angst…lightened by, hopefully, healthy dollops of light relief and badinage.

NB – Set Season 5 to post Season 5 I guess, probably seriously AU depending on Season 5…

BURN OUT NOT FADE AWAYChapter 1

"Maa'Kaay," John switched from _Rohd-knee_ to the surname to indicate his increasing exasperation and added a little snap to convey that special 'Colonel-speaking-here-so-in-charge-of-you' authority.

"_What is it now?!_" Unfortunately after 5½ – nearly 6 – years as part of 'SGA1' Rodney seemed to remain stubbornly oblivious to his subordinate place in the team's command structure and, as usual, sounded off as if he were a busy parent being pestered for attention by a spoilt child.

Nearby, Ronon's eyes gleamed momentarily as the big Satedan stood watch near the entrance of -

_This glorified hole in the ground_. John knew his scowl bounced right off Ronon, but he didn't try it on the fourth member of their team, standing watch so she had the Stargate in view at all times, because he was just so glad Teyla was back.

Not permanently, not even semi-regularly. Her priority, as he understood, was her little son. Regardless of the bizarre and extraordinary circumstances of Tagan's conception and gestation, the boy was…_okay, adorable, _though that was a word a man used sparingly even inside his own head. This "mission" was little more than a quick field-trip to a nearby world (Gatewise) to Atlantis's new planetary home.

"Quick" being the operative word, one that their resident genius was _not _operating to. Teyla had learned that the Wraith had targeted this purportedly never-populated planet in attempt to locate some legendary 'weapon' of great power allegedly hidden there. Many treasure-seekers and Wraith-haters had visited the planet, all to no avail. Temperate climate, no seriously large or dangerous life-forms, lots of forests and rolling hills – and absolutely no signs of any artificial constructions, or clues to some buried treasure.

Teyla had suggested checking it out using their/the Ancients equipment as a final measure, but doubted the story was remotely true. As she had admitted wryly, virtually every planet in Pegasus had it's own mythology of secret super-weapons, hidden in improbable locations that could be found by following implausible clues, capable of annihilating the Wraith wholesale – it was everyone's foremost fantasy.

But they'd been given a go, and for Teyla to come, if she wished, by Woolsey – Dr Richard Woolsey – John consciously made the correction in his head, aware of the dangers of himself especially, as the SGA's chief military officer, making a slip out loud, like Corporal…what was his name…Dunn?…who'd unwittingly referred to the man as Dr Woolly in front of Major Lorne and been sternly told off for it. There was also the fact that Woolsey had shown a marked preference for one particular puddle-jumper (nobody was sure why) and that had birthed some sort of bewildering joke the British members of the SGA Expedition found highly amusing for some reason, calling the craft a 'woolly-jumper'.

Carson, who as a Scot qualified as British, explained that in British English – or what they snootily called _real _English, a 'jumper'1 was another word for a 'sweater' – Carson had no idea why and no interest in enquiring. The Brits were always weird with the etymology, after all, who else but the British would give the front of a car a sissy name like 'the _bonnet_' instead of something suitably masculine, such as 'the _hood_'?

So far, they had found exactly what John expected them to find – diddly-squat! Mr 'Just-let-me-check-this', however, seemed to have decided he was _believing_ in fairy tales this week as he persisted in widening their search area -

_Which brings us back to glorified hole in the ground._ John eyed the opening with disfavour. It was more of a crack in the rocky hillside, a narrow, high gap that led into a small very roughly rectangular cave about the size of a double-wide service elevator you found in the big hotels. There was no sign whatsoever the cave was man-made or had ever been touched by either Neolithic chisel or Ug's bored descendant with a pound or so of C4.

And…yes, those _were_ now rain-clouds forming directly overhead; at this rate they would have a nice walk through the afternoon drizzle back to the 'Gate.

"Enough, McKay," his impending case of 'drizzle-hair' made him snappish and he stepped inside the entrance, preparatory to frog-marching the Annoying One out if necessary. "There's absolutely nothing here. _Nada, zip, zilch, nought, zero_."

"In a minute." Rodney didn't even look up as he flapped a hand in the general direction _of his superior_.

_Oh if I could put you on half-rations and a week in the guardhouse. Right. _"In a _now_…"

John took another step forward towards Rodney as the scientist took one towards him with an expression that boded he was about to let rip with some angry invective. John felt his boot dip down slightly as the floor failed to give the resistance to his weight that it should and there came a loud, distinct _ker-dunk_ sound that made both of them freeze solid.

A section of the back wall – six feet long by three feet wide - flipped over to reveal some sort of console with various large push buttons and dials. Centre-point were two narrow crystals protruding out of the console, one blue, one yellow, that looked as if they had each been filed to a sharp point, but despite this, the set-up didn't _look_ Ancient, although it looked…ancient.

"Don't move!" Rodney raised a finger warningly.

Instantly John tensed and scanned the floor and immediate vicinity for threats. "What's wrong?"

"You mean _other _than the secret panel that's just flipped out of the back wall…actually nothing…I'm just taking a moment to gloat."

"Rodney!"

"'_Nada, zip, zilch, nought, zero_'" his ex-friend sing-songed.

"_M'Kay, remember which one of us has the P-90_," John growled. "Ronon! Teyla!"

"We are here, John – " both experienced warriors, they had moved instantly upon his call, but Teyla broke off and exchanged a mutually astonished look with Ronon as they took in the cave, and specifically the new, snazzy interior décor.

"Can you move?" Ronon took in their rigid stances and the slight depressions in the rocks beneath one each of their boots, his '_without bringing several tons of roof down on top of you?_'clearly heard though unsaid.

As always, the two men effortlessly switched to a complete mental synchronization with each other when any situation got 'real', in a manner that would have absolutely astonished those on Atlantis who had only ever seen the two men snark and snarl at each other like two rambunctious Rottweiler puppies after the same bit of steak.

Their eyes met and an entire conversation passed in a silent second.

_Me?_ John offered by quirking his eyebrows.

_No_, Rodney vetoed, _you're nearest the opening; I'm nearest the controls to the Batcave._

_So?_

_So, Col-o-nel, if __**you**__ move and the roof caves in, we're both pancake here. If __**I **__move and the roof does a walls-o'-Jericho, you'll be able to dive out the opening and only one us will be good to flip in a frying pan and serve with lemon juice and sugar –_

Rodney -

_Get ready to tuck and roll, Sheppard…On three?_

_Nah…those sneakers are Nike®, right?_

_Yes, but I hardly think this is the time to be critiquing my sartorial choices!_

_Don't you watch TV McKay? Nike®…'Just Do It'._

_Oh…_

© 2008

C.D. Stewart a.k.a. The Cat's Whiskers

To be continued…

1 To those unfamiliar with British (i.e., proper) English, a 'jumper' in the UK can refer to, amongst other things, what in American English is called a sweater – long-sleeved thing with V- or round-neck that Princeton type males often wear in American TV shows like a shawl with the arms tied in front while they traipse off to play tennis or squash. They seem to be usually rose-pink or lemon-yellow for some reason. Anyway, made out of wool, or cashmere etc.


	2. Chapter 2

Sincere apologies and thanks to BlueEyedBrigadier who alerted me to the fact that I had in fact posted chapter 2 of my story The Only One instead of Chapter 2 of Burn Out Not Fade Away. Oopsie.

Atlantis BURN OUT NOT FADE AWAY

Chapter 2

"Okay, here goes nothing." Rodney suddenly announced - and strolled up to the console.

John's fingers twitched nervously and as if on strings he, Ronon and Teyla all glanced at the ceiling, but there seemed to be no _Camelot-_style SG-1 squishing booby-traps in this room. He relaxed – but not by much – since it seemed every treasure trove hider in the universe had watched their own version of some Spielberg movie and come up with various outlandish and gruesome protection measures.

"Are the symbols Ancient?" Teyla asked Rodney.

"No…because there _are_ no symbols." Rodney chewed his lip as he – very carefully – brushed off the accumulated dust of millennia. "Though the presence of these crystals indicates some cultural cross-pollination, or at least significant _contact_…"

"Are there any _power_ readings?" Ronon, as ever, cut to the chase.

"Good question from our Dread-locked One…nary a one…" Rodney's voice was unmistakeably disappointed.

"So it's dead." Ronon categorised to his own satisfaction.

"Ah-ah!" John warned them, raising a finger warningly. "General O'Neill's Standing Order Number 3 – crystal-based technology is only dead…"

"_Once you've taken the crystals out_." Three voices chorused back.

"Exactly."

With a sniff, Rodney hesitated and then firmly pushed one of the buttons into the console and they all immediately went back to holding their tension convention.

Absolutely nothing happened.

Teyla, who had always had a soft spot for the socially awkward scientist, commiserated, "We have _already_ discovered something nobody else – even the Wraith – did, Rodney, and I am sure _you_ can get it working again."

John felt a twinge. Rodney, for all his bombast and sarcasm, was just like John himself – driven by an obsession to protect Atlantis and their people from the Wraith, the Asurans and the sundry other unpleasant people around the Pegasus Galaxy. Rodney hadn't been dawdling to be awkward, but because…_he would never have forgiven himself if he'd just upped and left at my say-so and next week a bunch of Wraith found this_…_whatever this is_.

"I'll get Wooll-_sey_ to send an extraction team to bring it back to Atlantis," John offered his obviously downhearted friend. "Like Teyla said, I'm sure it will work. I mean, nothing looks _damaged_, just as if the batteries are dead." He peered to look at the 'power' crystals, hoping he was right.

This time the sound was a sharp, loud _crack_; having moved next to Rodney, John lost his footing as the slab of cave floor they were both standing on half-flirted up one side, throwing them into the console on the wall.

John yelped as pain speared his palm – _literally speared_ – the razor sharp point of the blue crystal had pierced his hand – and then cried out again as the stone slab flipped back to a horizontal position as fast as it had moved; instinctively he stumbled back and his hand slid off the crystal smoothly, leaving it smeared in blood.

"_Ooouch!_" he hissed as he held up the injured limb. The crystal hadn't gone completely through his hand but there was a deep puncture in the centre of his palm as if someone had jabbed him with the point of a stiletto knife.

Fortunately his three team mates were all business and unfortunately all too used to this kind of scenario; working together they had the small medikit out and ready in a second. Ronon took hold of John's wrist, helping him support the weight of holding the limb upright and elevated to reduce the blood loss, whilst Teyla and Rodney checked the wound.

"It is a precise incision," Teyla commented, "the crystal must be razor-sharp. But it will heal much more rapidly."

"No shards or splinters in it, either," Rodney flicked the penlight over the wound to make sure nothing reflected back at him, "so just a little disinfectant and a band-aid." He suited actions to words and within a minute John had a textbook First Aid dressing on the wound.

"Right, now let's get out of here," John groused, "and we're _not_ moving that thing until Zelenka and a structural-analysis team determine what _other_ supposedly solid parts of this cave were also built by the Three Stooges comedy team."

They hurried out of the opening where – yes, indeed, drizzle. However, John found he was quite sanguine about the incipient precipitation – if the protruding crystal had been 'razor sharp' _and a foot long_, he would have been skewered like a kebab through the ribs, not just nursing a bit of a hole in his hand. 'Could have been worse' was the Phrase of the Day. Apart from himself (which was a minor injury) they were okay and their equipment was okay, apart from the hole in Rodney's jacket…_the black-stained hole_.

"Rodney!"

"_Yeoowch!!_" Rodney squealed when John took a swift stride forward and yanked at his jacket; since the black-stain was his dried blood adhering the material of his jacket to his arm like sticking tape, this was quite painful and neatly took off a postage-stamp patch of skin in the process. "_Get off me!_"

"Be still!" Teyla ordered sharply. "You are also injured!"

"Huh?" John finally managed to pull off his jacket as Rodney stopped resisting and looked down at his own upper arm with shock. He too had a long, deep gash in the flesh that was still bleeding slightly.

John examined the arm of Rodney's jacket along what was a straight, clean incision, relieved that the 'black' substance was nothing more than Rodney's blood, and not some weird alien gloop that had had free reign to ravish Rodney's bloodstream in the few minutes before it was noticed.

"The other crystal," Ronon realised. "You must have fallen against it, same as Sheppard fell against the blue one."

"I honestly didn't feel a thing." Rodney admitted in surprise.

"The crystals must be super sharp," John frowned, "to cut you without you even realising it. Does it feel ok?"

Rodney flexed his bicep instinctively as Teyla did the First Aid bit again. "It feels okay. After all, I did brush most of the dust off the crystals to see if they had any energy and the cuts are clean."

"I would still recommend Carson." Teyla looked at them both in a manner that conveyed it was more than simply a suggestion.

"Not arguing!" Rodney pointed out. "Come on, my chest is no good in the damp."

Ronon moved ahead with powerful strides and dialled Atlantis; they stepped through the event horizon at a smart trot, appearing a second later in the Gate Room. Richard Woolsey was waiting on the balcony of Eliza- of his office, obviously awaiting their return and John, though he didn't want to, remembered his position as chief military officer and so raised a hand in acknowledgement, even though it felt too much like giving Woolsey _legitimacy_ both as his immediate superior and permanency as leader of the SGA in place of Elizabeth Weir and Samantha Carter.

And yet again there were loud 'clacks' and the Expedition's premier team suddenly found themselves facing the P-90s and 9-mils of their own people as Woolsey suddenly looked alarmed and the staff in the Gate Room drew back from 'SGA-1'.

_What the…?_ John gave Lorne a look that should have started at least a small fire on the man's uniform. He was cranky and his hand hurt. "Stand _down_, Major!"

But now Ronon and Teyla were also looking at John with wide eyes and frightened faces. "_What?_"

"Sheppard, your _arm_." Ronon did not exclaim – the big guy was never anxious – but his tone conveyed a certain unnerved urgency in the directive.

Sheppard looked down at his injured hand and a lump of solid ice promptly materialised in his gut. Instinctively he flexed fingers he could _feel_ perfectly well…but could no longer _see_.

His injured arm, from fingertips to his shoulder joint, plus a half-moon of his torso from his armpit to just above his hip bone were…gone. He could see the floor tile pattern right through where the solid flesh of his arm should be blocking the view with an expanse of grey-uniform cloth – where he could still _feel_ that it _was_ – _I look like that photo of Marty McFly's brother from Back To The Future_…he realised with numb shock… _in the process of being erased from existence_.

"Hey!" But suddenly Rodney – _Rodney_ – was standing between John Sheppard's favourite – and only – stomach and those locked and loaded P-90s. "Have you people been scoring the local _crack_ or something? Has Lucius Levin been back here visiting?"

"Rodney!" Teyla's voice was sharp and high, the most frightened John had ever heard. "Can you not see John's arm and his – body?"

"I _don't want_ to see John Sheppard's body…ever…that semi-striptease in the puddle-jumper to electrocute the Iratus bug was traumatic enough1." Rodney was Sarcasm Personified - it was as genetic as his brown hair and his grey eyes. "But yes, I can see his arm. It's an arm, big deal."

"Dr McKay!" Woolsey's tone was harsh with strain but – and Sheppard gave the man eternal props for this – he wasn't cowering on top of that balcony, but had marched right down to ground zero where the cannon fodder were. "Dr McKay, can you _see_ Colonel Sheppard? Does he appear _perfectly normal_ to you?"

John saw Rodney's momentary struggle against the temptation offered by Woolsey's offering such a sumptuous opening before Rodney…just gave in, as resisting temptation came under the McKay opinion – _why would I ever want to resist temptation?_ – and the scientist retorted, "Regrettably I'm not tripping out on whatever _you_ are because unfortunately he looks his usual self to me – annoying smirk, stupid hair, all limbs present and correct…"

_Wait a minute_… "Rodney! Look at me!"

And he did. McKay, with whom John's relationship more often resembled a Hatfield & McCoy feud, did not hesitate upon turning his back to several locked and loaded machine pistols. "_What?!_"

"Can you see my arm, and the left side of my torso?"

"Should I say it in Czech? I repeat: _all limbs present and correct_…of course I see your arm!"

"I can't."

"Huh?"

"The reason I think all our friends are freaking out is because _I can see straight through where my arm and a big chunk of my rib-cage should be_. Remember _Back to the Future_, Rodney, the first movie…the photograph of Marty McFly's headless brother?"

"_What_?"

"I said –"

Once again their eyes met in simultaneous realisation.

"_Damn crystals_."

© 2008

C. D. Stewart a.k.a. The Cat's Whiskers

_To be continued…_

1 Thirty-Eight Minutes, Season 1


	3. Chapter 3

Atlantis BURN OUT NOT FADE AWAYChapter 3

John was privately convinced that the Med Team had posted a personal best in getting 'SGA-1' to what was either the sick bay or the infirmary, depending on which side you came down on in the ongoing philosophical debate over whether Atlantis was a giant spaceship (_it's a sick bay_) or a giant city that just happened to be mobile (_it's an infirmary_).

Whatever the nomenclature, John was also privately aware that a tiny – albeit subconscious – part of Carson Beckett's 'grim' whenever some sucker got wheeled in for his team of medics to patch back up was due to the fact that there was woefully inadequate space that comprised of _anything_ resembling medical facilities for the number of people based here. Largely because the Ancients, at the risk of sounding paradoxical, had been nauseatingly healthy; Carson and his staff were often stretched to the limit with just a couple of hundred far fewer humans who were – in Ancient terms – less robust. If the city – or ship – were ever to be _fully _inhabited as it was ten millennia ago, at least by those of the Tau'ri, an immediate programme of converting buildings to hospitals would be necessary.

His three team mates were still here, rock solid, though being prodded by assorted nurses and Drs Schwartz and Keller whilst Carson focussed on John with single-minded intensity; no matter how he and Rodney tried to share the credit, this Carson – clone Carson – continued to display an embarrassing gratitude to them for being able to rescue him from Michael in the first place, and then again from stasis and prevent the cellular breakdown afflicting him.

Though fixing _that_ had been Rodney's obsession…only in the weeks after original – real - Carson had been killed had it dawned on John that Rodney's devastation was made worse because he had never learned those essential emotional coping mechanisms to deal with such a loss…for the simple reason that Carson Beckett was the first ever genuine friend Rodney had ever had.

Over the past half decade John had gleaned enough from overheard snippets and brief slips by Rodney himself, as well as his brief interactions with such as Rodney's sister Jeannie Miller (yet another door in his mind he'd marked DO NOT OPEN), to get that since childhood, Rodney's genius had resulted in a unfortunate perpetually-looped reprise of 'fake friends' who'd buddied up to Rodney as long as he was useful, then dropped him like he was scalding the instant they no longer needed him, could steal the credit without him having any recourse or, mostly, when he was unable to pull the miraculous 'rabbit out of the hat' on demand.

Unlike John and even Elizabeth, to whom Rodney had initially been the expedition's chief scientist and therefore under the same pressure from them to 'perform' as people previously had put upon him, Carson had cleaved through Rodney's thick emotional defences effortlessly. And how? By the simple expedient of wanting nothing from him. An experienced, long-serving Stargate Program physician in his own right – apparently he'd been a friend of some Dr Fraiser who had been killed in the line and whom the SGC practically venerated from what John cold tell - and secure in his own scientific arena, Carson's innate compassion and caring nature had led him to do things Rodney asked – and leave it at that. Carson had conquered because Rodney simply had no experience of dealing with someone who didn't expect _quid pro quo_; Rodney was always waiting for that '_…now I want you to…for me_' tag line.

_Clone or not, this Carson is just as bright and perceptive as his…progenitor, I guess_, John acknowledged as Carson took charge of his and Rodney's situation with an authority that would have made Napoleon emerald with envy. _He knows that the original Carson was the Pathfinder…Carson's fidelity caused Rodney to make that leap of faith and take the risk that other people were worthy of trust, and capable of loyalty. Original Carson turned McKay into Rodney_ _and Clone Carson is determined to keep that transformation in place_…

As was one John Sheppard; after Carson, John himself, Elizabeth and Teyla, along with Radek and even Ronon, had clearly been the closest people Rodney felt he had ever had to 'real' friends and John could understand Rodney's attitude to a certain extent - over the past six years John had witnessed enough of other people's interactions with Rodney to concede, even if only to himself, that Rodney's embittered attitude towards other humans was more than a little justified.

True, honesty compelled him to admit to himself that he, and Elizabeth and everyone – had also been guilty of pulling that 'my personal miracle worker' crap on Rodney – as if the man were a 'save the day' wind-up toy you could just set off going and lo! Problem solved! However, the Duronda debacle aftermath had taught him a salutary lesson in McKay Psych 101 courtesy of some spiteful individuals that had brought home to him just how much crap Rodney had endured in his life. Crap that John Sheppard, for all his mathematically gifted brain and MENSA IQ, had never had to deal with by virtue of being born into a rich family, and gifted with both an attractive face and an athletic physique that had enabled him to assume the 'sporty' kid role ever popular in American educational institutions, rather than the 'geek/nerd' kid label.

His anger at McKay had been intense and his belief in the man's ability and reliability lowered. But then he'd overheard and been slyly 'informed' by Rodney's 'concerned' and self-labelled 'friends' of "'McKay's erratic mental state'" and his "'emotional instability'" and it had suddenly clicked that Rodney _hadn't_ understood that John was angry with him for endangering his own life and that of the team by his obsession that he could work anything Ancient. They'd been in Atlantis barely a year when Duronda went down and that stuttering apology had been because at that time Rodney still believed John was just like everyone else – he'd been apologising because he thought John was furious at him for not producing a McKay Miracle on demand. Duronda had been about Rodney's inferiority complex, not his egomania – he had been afraid that he would be sent back to Earth if he couldn't jump through the hoops John and Elizabeth had wanted.

Unfortunately as time went on and their relationship developed into a more – well, not cordial – but a genuine if slightly odd friendship, there had never been an opportunity to correct those misconceptions without having to talk about 'feelings' or having one of those stuttering, embarrassing 'y'know' conversations that a guy hated with the same passion he loved baseball or football. And in the end it hadn't been necessary; eventually John realised that Rodney had allowed himself and the others 'in' past those barriers.

But because Rodney had never experienced real, close friendships, he lacked any coping mechanism to deal with the trauma. He'd had no literal scourge but Rodney had mercilessly self-flagellated himself over his 'failure' to somehow keep Carson alive. Finding Michael's clone had been Rodney's dream come true – he got his friend back and, when they had to put Carson into stasis, fixing that enabled Rodney to 'atone' for what he felt was his failure to protect the original Carson Beckett. _And clone Carson is smart enough to have figured all that out too…_

Right now, Rodney was wearing a look of anxiety unhappily close to the expression he'd worn in those days when he, the elfin Dr Jenny Keller over there and Radek Zelenka had worked frantically to fix clone Carson's molecular degeneration.

And thinking of Radek – yes, he was also here, standing side by side with Evan Lorne, who was watching Dr Keller work on Rodney, with, perhaps, just enough extra interest to 'ping' John's radar; Jennifer Keller _was_ both beautiful and brilliant, and as a civilian, there were no chain-of-command issues should Lorne make an overture to her – if any relationship that developed got serious, John decided he could reassess then from a 'CO' perspective. Right now, he had far more pressing concerns.

Smart soldier that he was, Lorne kept Radek and himself 'perfectly positioned' - standing near the doorway but in the room. In short, on hand ready to help, but _out_ of the way of the important people, i.e., those with 'M.D.' after their surnames. Sourly John realised that 'Doctor' Richard Woolsey had reverted to bean-counting form and remained cowering in the Gate Room whilst his primary team had been rushed to…to…_medical_…John decided. Samantha Carter would have been front-and-centre of this little soiree and you wouldn't have been able to blast Elizabeth out of here with Semtex…

Right, time to do his job - "Lorne!"

"Sir?"

"As of now you're the ranking CMO of Atlantis, until either I quit being like an outtake from _Back to the Future_ or Colonel Caldwell arrives back on the Daedalus and –" _makes a power-grab _"- chooses to take over himself."

"Yessir." Lorne nodded.

John relaxed slightly – not only was Evan Lorne a solid operator who John knew had had some experience in a few of those 'black ops' missions he himself had participated in once or twice, but Lorne had an exceptionally agile mind and John knew he could rely on the man to instantly grasp the text and the subtext of what John told him.

He felt a very faint prickling sensation in a _very _sensitive area and instinctively looked down. He could feel that his hipbone, upper thigh and entire groin were still there but they too were completely see-through, as in he could _see_ the medical trolley he was sitting up on even though it should be blocked by a sterling view of his own crotch. He tensed automatically at the disappearance of his fundamentally male anatomy, but felt no actually pain – _anywhere_ in fact. He could still feel all…salient parts…he could just _see right through them_.

"_Rroh'dnii, _is th'urr any pa_rr_t of Co'nel Sheppud_ you _canna _see_." Stress always exaggerated Carson's Scottish 'burr' and made him over-pronounce his 'r's.

Rodney, who as the other crystalline victim was also stretched out on medical trolley, being 'wired for sound' by a less than tactfully eager-looking Dr Jennifer Keller and examined with clear ill-will, shook his head and told Carson: "As always the one person in this room who would _pay_ to not have to look at _that_ face and that _appalling_ hair is the one person who can see him just fine."

"There's nothing wrong with my hair," John shot back, "You're just jealous because _I'm _not _thinning_ on top –"

Rodney took the bait, vanity making his hand automatically rise to touch his scalp despite the angry tongue-click of the nurse trying to IV his arm.

Before the Bicker-fest could commence, Teyla put in, "_You_ are the one _thinning _elsewhere, John. I have to confess that it is…most unnerving…to look at you and yet…you are not all there."

"Sheppard's _never_ been all there," Rodney commented as if to himself , yet at a pitch just loud enough to be clearly heard by everyone.

"_Enough_, bohth uf ye!" Carson's fears for his friends – and saviours – meant he was not in the mood to be pushed by their usual snarking. "Curr'nel Sheppard – ye c'n still _feel _yurr limbs?"

"Yep, everything present and correct." To demonstrate, John raised both his arms and held them out straight in front of him like he was impersonating a Hammer House of Horror movie mummy. Lifting his visible hand he sharply slapped the back of his invisible hand, and saw everyone look simultaneously fascinated and worried as they all clearly _heard_ the impact of his palm, but to their _eyes_ he had just cuffed nothing but thin air.

"An' ye're in no pain?" Carson pressed.

Apart from the mild stinging on the back of his invisible hand from the slap he'd just self-inflicted, no. Not wanting to push Carson over the line from exasperation to genuine anger, he assured. "Not even discomfort. I _feel_ fine."

"Well yurr vital signs are _normal_." Carson clearly found this as astonishing as it admittedly deserved to be, "Well, I mean within norrrm'l parameters. Your blood pressure an' heart rate are up, but given the circumstances that's t' be expected."

"So if it weren't the fact that chunks of me are going "I-Man2, I'd be in perfect physical health?" John wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or even more worried. If his body _wasn't _indicating 'BIG PROBLEM HERE!' at any juncture, how were they supposed to know where to start to fix it and get him re-visibilised?! _And I don't care if that's not a word._

"What is I-Man?" Teyla asked.

"_The Invisible Man_ was a book –" Rodney piped up, explaining, "written by H. G. Wells in 1897, about a scientist named Griffin who discovered the secret of invisibility –"

Teyla and Ronon exchanged puzzled 'humans are weird' glances and Ronon said, "If the Tau'ri had this technology, what, one-hundred and…ten?…of your years ago, why can't you just –"

"Nonono!" Rodney waved a hand impatiently. "Wells' book was a _novel_ - a story – it was fiction, written for _entertainment_, not a textbook of an actual scientific reality. The story was updated in various ways over the years. 'I-Man' comes from one of the most popular visual adaptations of the story in 2000-2001; fans of the show1 on the Internet took to using the phrase 'I-Man' to discuss the character and the show's actors liked it so much they incorporated the word into self-referential onscreen dialogue…" his voice trailed off lamely into the total silence… "so I've been _told_…"

"Thank-_you_, Rodney." He didn't often unleash it, but if the occasion demanded, a certain Scottish doctor could also produce sarcasm that could flay the hide of a rhinoceros.

© 2008

C. D. Stewart a.k.a. The Cat's Whiskers

To be continued…

1 Running for two Seasons from 2000-2001, _The Invisible Man _starred genre veteran Paul Ben-Victor as secret agent Bobby Hobbes and Vincent Ventresca (Fun Bobby from _Friends_) as the eponymous Invisible Man, named Darian Fawkes. 'I-Man' had the incredible good fortune for everything to come together in perfect synchronisation: cast, characterisations, dialogue, plotlines, good effects, etc., etc. Unlike many other even very good TV shows (e.g., Buffy, Angel, Stargate, NCIS, JAG,) there was no need for tweaking of characterisation or cast adjustments. The chemistry between Ventresca and Ben-Victor lit up the screen from the first moment they shared camera space, and the other three main cast members, Eddie Jones (The Official) Mike McCafferty (Eberts) and Shannon Kenny (The Keeper) blended together in perfect harmony.

Laugh-out-loud funny, sharply witty and top-notch plots made the show – deservedly – the sci-fi channel's highest rated show of the year; the show's producers also were clued-in to the importance of Internet fan-bases and opinion before many others realised the 'power' of cyber-fandom (yes, I admit, for good or ill) and were both kind enough and savvy enough to acknowledge that support by referencing such things as the above mentioned 'I-Man' in the on-screen dialogue.

It was so good I found only one flaw, and whoever finally decided to cancel the show must have been either idiotic or insane. From what I can gather, the show was apparently 'killed by committee' – there was ongoing bickering between the Sci-Fi Channel and it's – then – parent company USA Networks and the show was – disastrously, as it was the best thing they'd ever done – one of Sci-Fi's fatalities of the spat after Season 2 (which introduced Brandy Ledford, from the Stargate Atlantis Season 2 episode _Inferno_, as Alex Monroe).

The show was also treated with unconscionable disrespect by the 'suits'; until the penultimate episode of Season 2, the cast and crew were assured there would be a Season 3, before being abruptly told the show was over. During Season 2, one of the recurring comedic plotlines was the way "The Agency" moved to the cover of several Federal agencies depending on funding (including the US Postal Service at one point!). The cast requested for the final episode that they be allowed to move back to the Department of Fish & Game, which had been the butt of many Season 1 in-jokes, but this was flatly refused. In defiance of this edict, the cast had the show's final scenes show that the Agency had indeed moved back to Fish & Game – with Eberts placing that Department's Seal back on the wall in The Official's Office. How was this taken by the 'suits' – they didn't even bother to check/view the last episodes, and so had no idea what had been done!

NB – just as I was about to post this chapter, I was told that I could not mention the show's only (in my opinion) flaw, and then not explain it. Good point. Here goes – the show is often told from the viewpoint of Darien, who, in the pilot, is a highly intelligent but lackadaisical young man who's drifted through life and always run away rather than put any effort in, never accepting any personal or moral responsibility for his choices or what he's chosen not to do.

Unfortunately, this characterisation is carried on throughout both seasons – instead of 'growing up' and accepting some personal and moral responsibility – Darien all too often responded in a petulant, whining manner. His character also continued to treat 'Hobbes' with scorn, derision and contempt, despite the fact that Hobbes, from the outset (despite their antagonistic initial contact) will die to save or defend Fawkes because that's what he does for The Official. Despite the fact that Hobbes sides with Darien (getting fired) in the season 1 finale, and willingly goes with Darien despite the latter being Quicksilver mad at the time and therefore a psychopathic killer quite capable of murdering Hobbes without warning for fun, in Season 2, the Darien character repeatedly had 'spoiled brat' moments that did detract from the quality of the episodes – whining about how his lot was 'unfair' and how hard done by he was, making the viewer want to smack him round the head and point out how charmed a life he'd led in comparison to Bobby Hobbes who had given unstinting loyalty and service to his country and be rewarded by being used as a scapegoat and abandoned. But honestly, that really was the only annoying thing about the show. It is a great pity nobody at Sci-Fi ever had the courage, vision or genius to leave it a couple of years and then bring back Season 3.


	4. Chapter 4

Atlantis BURN OUT NOT FADE AWAYChapter 4

Radek took a step forward, "Carson, Major Lorne here has just asked a most pertinent question –"

John felt a momentary pang of sympathy for Lorne as the Major looked like a rabbit transfixed by car headlamps, but then dismissed it. The other man's habit of asking himself questions _sotto voce _that were unintentionally but occasionally audible enough to be heard by someone nearby was a dangerous foible for a military man to have; being the cynosure of all eyes like this might encourage him to break the habit.

" – which I agree with," Radek nodded towards Rodney with a decisive jerk of his head that nearly sent his spectacles sailing off his face, "namely why is _Rodney_ not also disappearing in chunks?"

And it was back to John feeling like the butterfly pinned on a board as everyone looked at him and then Rodney; he could see Carson's compassion as a doctor warring with his scientific curiosity. _But it's a valid question, _he acknowledged, _because _–

"Yes, yes!" Shutting Rodney McKay up for any length of time was a task beyond the merely Herculean – _Wraith _had tried and retired vanquished from the field. "We both got stabbed at the same time!"

"_Exactly _the same time?" Demanded an irrepressibly interested Jenny Keller.

"Definitely," Ronon interjected with Teyla nodding agreement.

"At the moh'mnt mah only intrest _as a doctorrr_ is tryin' tah find a whey to stop losin' sight o' any morrah kernal Shep'ad!" Carson snapped with reprimanding emphasis, anger making his accent almost as indecipherable as Radek's, and Keller had the grace to blush. " Or neda remin' e'evrywun o' wha hap'n'dta the _orig_inal I-Man?"

That sobered everyone up, with the exception of the alien contingent. Ronon and Teyla exchanged worried glances and Teyla stated, "But you said that the Tau'ri never had this technology and that the original…I-Man…was just a story?"

"It was," Radek chimed in, his own accent coming to the fore due to worry, "but in the original story, Griffin – the Invisible Man – was unable to _reverse _the process and make himself visible again – that drove him insane and he became a psychotic, homicidal maniac."

"Thanks, Zelenka, that'll bring my blood pressure right down," John complained, not mollified as Radek did nothing but give his trademark deep shoulder-rolling shrug and pushed his spectacles back onto his annoying Czech nose with one forefinger.

Teyla tried again, "Did you not encounter _anything_ similar before you came to this galaxy, whilst at…"Star-Gate-Command"?"

© 2008

C. D. Stewart a.k.a. The Cat's Whiskers

To be continued… 


	5. Chapter 5

Atlantis BURN OUT NOT FADE AWAYChapter 5

Everyone looked expectantly at John. "_What?_ I was at the SGC all of _once_ before coming to Pegasus – my second visit _was _to come here. I didn't know anything about Stargates and travelling to other planets!"

"Then why were you assigned for the mission?" Evan Lorne's face showed he would probably consider selling at least a bit of his soul if he could rewind the last two seconds, as he was clearly unable to stop the question popping out of his mouth.

Shooting his second-in-command a look that promised, 'I'll get you for this', John protested, "I was just the pilot who happened to take General O'Neill to the Antarctica Outpost when Dr Jackson figured out that Atlantis was "_in a galaxy far, far away_"…it was a fluke!"

"Wait a minute!" Rodney burst out, unintentionally almost elbowing Keller in the face as agitation propelled him to sit upright, "The _first time_ you'd even _seen _a Stargate was…_when you came through it to Atlantis?!_…You've got to be _kidding_ me! _Aiden Ford had more Gate travel experience than _–"

"And look how much good it did him!"

The two locked eyes for a furious instant before both simultaneously broke, eyes down and away. Each knew the other man carried his own burden of grief, guilt and sorrow over the fate of the talented, enthusiastic young officer.

Into the distressed silence Carson hurriedly interjected, "Aye, tha's right. It was only because Colonel Sheppard disobeyed General O'Neill –"

"I did no such thing!" John protested vehemently, mentally pushing away the phantom of a grinning Air Force Lieutenant as Evan Lorne tried to look 'blandly subordinate' even as his ears clearly pricked up with keen interest.

"He _told _you noh'tah _touch_ anythin'," Carson contradicted.

"And. I. Didn't." John shot back. "When a General tells a Major to 'keep your fingers off' - you do it. I didn't go _near_ any of your weirdo equipment; I just wanted to take a load off so I sat down in a _chair_. How was I supposed to know the furniture came with _subtext?!_ – and leave us not forget _who_ came within a second of blowing _General O'Neill _and _yours truly_ outta the sky with that drone weapon?!"

Carson subsided, flushing with chagrin and apology, as Jenny Keller irrepressibly asked, "You had no idea about the Stargate Program or that you had the ATA gene? You weren't even out there as part of Cam's real-life _Gundam Wing_ holding off Anubis's fleet for SG-1 to activate the super-weapon?"

"Cam? Oh…you mean Colonel Mitchell?…Uh…er…n-no." John was unable to prevent the slight stammer as he suddenly realised his indignation had led him into Dangerous Territory.

As in 'Here Be Dragons' – _Full-Grown, Fire-Breathing, Hungarian Horntails_, folks.

No way was he explaining to _this_ assemblage that he'd been sent McMurdo as a punishment, only one step away from being broken from Major to Captain or even dishonourably discharged. Or that his 'task' to be 'some General's chauffeur' on that fateful day had been a further act of spite on the part of his supposed 'fellow-officers', many of whom had made it a point to ostracise and spurn him.

John knew why – _somebody_ had ensured certain details of his P-file1, given a negative spin and taken out of context – had gotten to McMurdo _before _he had grimly arrived, like a prevailing wind carrying the malodorous pong to your nose before the manure truck comes into view. His MENSA-eligible level IQ because of his exceptional mathematical ability – but the fact he had not joined a Chapter; his 'old money' wealthy background and his rich parents and his East Coast private school had been just three 'leaked excerpts' – but amongst the most damaging.

Prejudged and pre-labelled either a rich kid using the Air Force as his own private plane-supplier, or a supercilious geek who thought he was a cut above the less brainy, or an adrenaline-addicted machismo-soaked glory hound – or a combination of all three – the constant icy weather he'd experienced from the moment he touched down on the Island _hadn't_ been because the place was in Antarctica.

Though he would never have a shred of evidence to prove it, John also knew _exactly_ who had sold him out and why – his own immediate C.O., Lt. Colonel Danton Ibberson, may-he-rot-in-hell. On paper, Ibberson and Sheppard were a perfect match because both came from the same 'old money', Blue Chip Stock New England background of affluence and private schools, and both had sought a commission in the USAF. Unfortunately, the reality was far different. Unlike the majority of USAF personnel, whatever their rank – bright, courageous, loyal, honourable and diligent – Ibberson _was_ the rich wastrel glory-seeker, a conceited egomaniac whose lucky accident of birth and superficial physical good looks made him think he was a cut above everyone else and a surreptitious racist who considered anyone _without_ pink-hued skin subhuman.

He'd sought service in the U.S. Military not for love of his country and a desire to protect his fellow Americans, but because he'd thought a uniform bedecked with braid and colour-patches would look best in TV interviews as he slithered up the ladder of power; he was also a completely chauvinistic misogynist who viewed the half of the human species to which he did not belong as barely above domestic animals, useful only as a 'sexual handkerchief', to be used when you 'needed to sneeze' and then be thrown away. His attitude to female personnel had been slyly perverse – and dogged by persistent rumours of physical violence – and he had routinely used the full-on impression of his dress uniform to trick women who naturally assumed that the man wearing all that starch and braid had the integrity and respect for her just-as-valid right to personal dignity as she expected from a United States' military officer.

John was no prude – but nor was he some sort of male slut – or 'man-ho' in the current trendy-speak. He had a finely honed appreciation for the female form in its many delicious flavours, but he did not for one second believe that a human being was some sort of pet dog or mindless machine like a car to be controlled as he saw fit simply because that human being had some differently-arranged anatomy and a few extra chemicals floating around their bloodstream; above all, the idea of raining angry blows upon _anyone _of any sex or age who lacked the physical capability to fight back was abhorrent.

Unfortunately, John had not been as good as he'd thought at hiding his disgust and contempt of Ibberson's attitudes and egotism and his sincere attempt to help out that refugee family in Iraq had given Ibberson the excuse he'd been looking for…even now John could recall with icy, crystalline clarity the confrontation when he'd been summoned to Ibberson's staff tent at o-dark-hundred2 one night…the tent and immediate surround was suspiciously deserted of any other personnel and the look on Ibberson's face had made John feel as if a myriad tiny snakes were slithering around in his gut – that triumphant glee could not bode well, and it hadn't as Ibberson had gloated over John's attempts to obtain provisions for the family's children.

_Even for you Sheppard this marks a new low for stupidity, and which one of us supposedly has the MENSA brain? Risking everything for a few gooks who only want you as a meal-ticket stateside where they can go suicide bombing good, honest Americans for 'Allah' and their mad mullahs…you think I'm going to let any of these brain-fried fanatic nutjobs anywhere the Continental US of A?_

He'd remained stoic and silent. He had had no idea how Ibberson had rumbled him but he _had _known how well and truly screwed he was…

_What? No snappy retort, no quick quip? Yeah, 'cause I've got you good by the balls and you know it you so-smart, holier-than-thou bastard._

Oh yes, John had known just how royally bad his immediate future was going to get as Ibberson let slip two of the main sources of his hatred – John was smarter and had used several methods, not all subtle, that had severely curtailed Ibberson's antics of tricking women and sexual coercion – and of beating up on them.

…_It was going to be back to __**Corporal**__for you…but it's your lucky night…I'm feeling generous. This will all go away, Sheppard – yes, that's right, you look so surprised, what, can't that gargantuan IQ get a handle on the concept?_

It hadn't been surprise so much as shock and a healthy dose of self-preservation-tinged fear. If it suited Ibberson, it couldn't be good – and it wasn't.

_Where was I? Ah yes, no court-martial, no demotion, no letter of reprimand – nothing at all on your P-file…all you have to do is bruise your patellas_.

It hadn't computed; John knew he had looked blankly confused because that had sent Ibberson into a brief bout of giggles, which John always hated because Ibberson – did he but know it – had an effeminate laugh that was regularly mocked by…well pretty much everyone who'd ever met him.

_Your __**knees**__, John-boy. Let me simplify…nothing at all, you get away clean as a whistle, free as a bird, no harm no foul – and any other cliché you want to insert…all you have to do is get down on your knees right now and __**beg me**__not to do it…_

Disbelief had wiped John's brain momentarily blank at the outrageous offer. Mistaking his shock for defiance, Ibberson's eyes had glowed with malice and hate as he spat out a reiteration of his demand.

_Come on Sheppard, you're too much of a pretty boy not have been on your knees in front of a man before…and putting that mouth of yours to better use than your usual puerile 'wit'…think I don't know how you made it to Major in the first place…hee-hee-hee…how many of your COs did you go down on to get those golden oak-leaves? But I don't swing that way so I'll settle for your usual verbal eloquence…now, Major. Get. Down. On. Your. Knees and plead with me not to destroy your career. __**Beg me **__Sheppard, I want you choking on your own humiliation!_

Ibberson's face had been scarlet with both a frighteningly mentally-unhinged fervour and an unnatural lust – not a base, sexual animalism, true, but still lust – lust to inflict _humiliation_, lust to _hurt_, a clear sadistic desire to degrade and shame –

"_JOHN!_"

He snapped back into the now at the strident, fearful tone – and because Rodney McKay had uttered it. Rodney rarely used his Christian name in preference to 'Sheppard', because the latter gave the Snippy One much greater scope for sarcastic intonation in the ongoing snark-fest that was the Sheppard-McKay relationship.

John looked over at Rodney's worried face and immediately brought down the barriers on the bad memories – because as well as concern darkening blue eyes to grey, there was also _curiosity_ and when you were dealing with someone of Rodney McKay's intellect, that was a recipe for disaster with extra catastrophe.

Rodney was nobody's fool, and of everyone in this room (all looking anxiously at him), with the exception of Evan Lorne, who was fellow military, Rodney _had_ to have figured out the 'subtext' of John being stationed at McMurdo when Brigadier General Jack O'Neill wanted a ride to 'even _more_ the middle of nowhere, Antarctica'. Like Daniel Jackson, Rodney McKay had worked for several years in a civilian capacity as part of the SGC – and before being assigned to Atlantis had been posted to a remote USAF station in _Alaska_ as punishment for some _contremps_ with Colonel Samantha Carter. In short, Rodney, like Lorne, had to 'know' that John hadn't been stationed at McMurdo as part of some ultra-secret plan to fast-track him to Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

But when it comes to problems, men react differently to women – whilst a woman's automatic response is to provide support by empathy and not take action unless invited, a man's equally instinctive response is to _act_ – to 'remove', to 'solve'; just like John, Lorne, Ronon and the vast majority of men, if Rodney realised that someone he cared for was genuinely upset or feeling real distress, his automatic response was to just get stuck in and 'fix it' for his friend/loved one.

The last thing John needed was for Rodney to intuit just how much John still struggled with the memories of his exile to McMurdo and to stir up a lot of very muddy, very stagnant water by 'diving in' of his own accord in an attempt to help alleviate John's feelings.

An attempt he would doubtless be very successful at – as they'd said on _The West Wing_, the Pentagon had lost entire countries, and someone of Rodney's computer skills and general intelligence level could have made himself a much easier mega-fortune many times over as a criminal – hacking, electronic bank heists, etc., - than the honest and honourable work he had thankfully chosen to pursue.

Most of all, it wasn't necessary; though John was dismayed at the power of that night's memories to still anger him, revenge truly was a dish best served cold.

Completely repulsed by the gleeful creature in front of him, he had simply turned on his heel and walked out – and waited for the axe to fall. But it hadn't.

Like all bullies, Ibberson was a coward, and like all cowards, was too afraid to 'follow through', fearfully aware that Sheppard could becalm his career. There were no witnesses to that night's confrontation, but Ibberson knew that all John had to do was reveal what had happened in any court-martial. True it was John's word against Ibberson's but even if nobody had 'believed' John the claim would have hung around Ibberson like a bad smell, gone ahead of his career like a noxious bow-wave, slowing it or even stopping his desired progression altogether in true 'mud sticks' and 'no smoke without fire' fashion.

So Ibberson had contented himself with wangling that providential exile to McMurdo, and John had kept his rank. But now, six years later and according to the rumour mill that John still kept tabs on, Danton Ibberson was _still_ a Lt Colonel in the USAF, whereas John had been a full Colonel for nearly two years – which was bad for Ibberson.

In the U.S. Military, once you had achieved a certain level of rank, your progression further up the food chain was 'expected' to be proportionally more rapid. By the time you reached the level of, say, Lieutenant Colonel, you were supposed to _know_ what was expected of you both professionally and personally and to be able demonstrate your fulfilment of those expectations in short order without an unreasonably long 'proving' process.

It was 'expected' – a highly useful phrase in military language – to take you commensurately less time to achieve promotion from Major to Lt Colonel to Colonel than to make it from 1st Lieutenant to Captain to Major. The fact that Ibberson, already a Lt Colonel when he'd packed John off to McMurdo, was still not a full Colonel hinted that someone, somewhere, had sussed out that Ibberson was rotten to the core – and John did not want being inveigled back anywhere near the scumbag.

"I'm sorry I was just…kicking myself – metaphorically speaking," he lied, "for not paying attention – I only had a quick tour of the SGC at Norad and to be honest I was still half-convinced it was all some big hoax or grossly exaggerated, so I didn't actually listen to a lot of the 'and this is from when SG…' anecdotes."

© 2008

C. D. Stewart a.k.a. The Cat's Whiskers

To be continued…

1 P-file personnel file or personal records.

2 In normal English this is midnight

3 NB – for the benefit of UK/US readers, the equivalent ranks for the RAF and the USAF are (lowest first):

UK (Royal Air Force) US (Air Force)

Acting Pilot Officer -

Pilot Officer 2nd Lieutenant

Flying Officer 1st Lieutenant

Flight Lieutenant Captain

Squadron Leader Major

Wing Commander Lieutenant Colonel

Group Captain Colonel

Air Commodore Brigadier-General

Air Vice-Marshal Major-General

Air Marshal Lieutenant-General

Air Chief Marshal General

Marshal of the RAFGeneral of the Air Force

In the Atlantis pilot, Sheppard was a UK Squadron Leader equivalent; by Season 4 he is a Group Captain (full Colonel) equivalent.

In the UK, _lieutenant_ is pronounced Left-tenant, in the US as Loo-tenant.

These two ranks are usually reserved for wartime footings only, and are rarely if ever attained during peacetime. I don't know if, since America and Britain are, in the Stargate universe, at War with the Wraith and the Ori (nothing like a little compulsive over-achievement) that they do have people of those two ranks, stationed elsewhere than Earth.


	6. Chapter 6

Atlantis BURN OUT NOT FADE AWAYChapter 6

"Guilty as charged here, too." Rodney indicated himself with a forefinger glumly. "Most of the time – except when I ended up in _Alaska_, which was a case of outrageous victimisation – I was at Area 51 or one of the very few civilian labs with security clearance. By the time the mission reports filtered through to us they were months old and often incomplete – we civvies used to call them the SG Teams 'hysterical historicals'."

Ronon cleared his throat and spoke with unusual hesitancy – he usually just put words out there and left it to the hearers to deal. "After we stopped the Wraith – me and Teal'c, the Jaffa…"

"Go on Ronon," John encouraged, deliberately squashing that little flare of absolutely-not-jealousy.

He and Ronon had immediately connected; both were – or Ronon had been – military officers, but more, both were warriors, men who had willingly volunteered to serve in order to protect their people, even if that literally killed them. The also 'got' each other's humour and both were, yes red-blooded heterosexual males with an appreciation for the female form, fermented liquid grain products and watching 'vigorous' contact-sports.

But, for all their initial mutual wariness to each other, Ronon and Teal'c had connected on a level that John had known he could never match. He had no comprehension of what it was like to live your entire life in terror of yourself or loved ones being 'culled' by the Wraith, or of being a slave to a Goa'uld System Lord, forced to commit terrible atrocities to keep yourself and your family alive. Ronon had lost all his family and friends in Sateda's final losing battle against the Wraith, Teal'c's wife it seemed had committed suicide in order to deny the Goa'uld a new host and they'd had a son that apparently Teal'c could only ever see in sneak visits undertaken years apart in strictest secrecy because it was too dangerous for the son – Rygel? Rick? No, Rya'c! – to be known to be Teal'c's offspring, as it left both vulnerable. Though he wasn't proud of it, John had been piqued by the rapport between the two who were 'big men' in more ways than one.

"He mentioned a battle against an invisible race…the Ree-two?"

Rodney snapped his fingers, "Yes! Y- No..." he deflated. "The Reetu are an insectoid race in the Milky Way Galaxy. They're not invisible per se; they exist at the end of the light spectrum undetectable to _human_ eyes, which is inapplicable here. But there were…damn it, McKay, think!" he rapped his knuckles against his own skull. "Something to do with nausea…noxious…"

"The Nox, Dr McKay."

Well, Dr Richard Woolsey had finally decided to join the party had he? Although, John could see the man had the drawn face and that 'pinched' look around his eyes of a man with a severe headache.

"I'm sorry for the time it's taken, I've just been conferring with General Landry –"

John felt a twinge of guilt as Woolsey explained he'd dialled the Stargate to Earth to provide a conduit for fast communication with the SGC, despite that Woolsey had to know the power requirements…_Okay, so not cowering in the Gate-Room after all_.

"General Landry has the SGC collating a précis of any previous experience that might be relevant or useful," Woolsey explained.

"What about the…'Knox'?" John had to ask.

Woolsey shook his head. "It's not invisibility but illusion – the Nox can apparently make themselves and objects invisible but it's actually just technology…"

"Smoke and mirrors to the max…" John sat back on his trolley-bed disappointed.

"In a way yes, they _persuade_ the looker not to see what's actually there more than making what's actually there invisible, if that makes any sense." Woolsey conceded.

"Wait…what about…" Rodney screwed up his face in concentration, "Not…the Titans…the Atoms? Atans?"

"No," but this came from Carson. "You mean the Atanaqs. I studied that case as part of my medical training for off-world missions." Seeing blank faces all around he expounded, "The Atanaqs were a very advanced warrior-race in the Milky Way. They invented a technology in the form of armlet bands that gave them super-strength and super-speed. They weren't really invisible, they just moved too fast for the eye to see, like a bullet travelling through the air from a gun."

Ronon raised his eyebrows at that. "Impressive."

"Noh' really, son." Carson disagreed. "The Atanaqs piggy-backed their snazzy knew soldier-enhancements onto a viral infection that was injected into the warrior's bloodstream. Unfortunately the initial results were so stupendously great they gave their _entire military contingent_ the bloody things _en masse _straightaway –"

"Ouch," murmured Jenny Keller, clearly way ahead of everyone else.

"Aye," Carson nodded at her unvoiced perceptiveness. "Military personnel tend to be healthier and fitter than the average layman anyway, and that includes their internal organs and vital functions as well. The armlets worked great for about four days - reckoned in Earth solar time - before the Atanaqs' natural immune systems wiped out the virus and the armlets dropped off – presumably at the optimally worst time for it. Unfortunately the Atanaqs couldn't make the technology work without using the viral vector and even worse the immunity to the carrier virus turned out be _hereditary_ not tetragenic."

"Tet-ra-gen-ik?" Ronon repeated the unfamiliar word.

"It means non-hereditary," Carson oversimplified. "Basically the Atanaqs couldn't revive the technology because the subsequent generation were _born_ with a natural _immunity_ to the carrier virus inherited from their parents."

John had to physically stop himself from making a sound as he realised a brief snatch of a tune was looping inside his head…_and another one falls and another one falls and another one bites the dust!_ Great, Queen1, rulers of baroque rock, had taken up residence inside his head.

"What determinations have you been able to make?" Woolsey asked Carson now, bringing things back on track.

"Other than the invisibility is progressively spreading and I've no idea why it's only affecting the Colonel and not Dr McKay, none." _That _was Atlantis' Chief Medical Officer speaking. "I need to do a full blood-work and biochemical analysis on both of them for a start. But since neither Ronon and Teyla went in the cave or touched the device –"

"Who 'touched'?!" squawked Rodney indignantly. "I was _thrown_ into it at great force by Colonel Leadfoot here!"

"- I'm happy to discharge them." Carson ignored Rodney completely with the ease of considerable practice whilst simultaneously shooting John a quelling glare that definitely warned: 'retaliate and starting bickering again and I will _hurt_ you'.

_You're the doc, doc…and you have the syringes_ – Mrs Sheppard didn't raise no fool.

"Good," Woolsey nodded at Atlantis' foremost alien duo.

Teyla looked relieved and John remembered with a jolt that she had come straight here instead of going to see to her son first.

"Have you an ETA for the SGC's next transmission?" Carson asked.

"Not at the moment. If it will be quicker they'll use _Daedalus_ as a relay. Speaking of which, I asked General Landry to inform Colonel Caldwell that Colonel Sheppard had devolved military command to Major Lorne. Colonel, Major, is there anything you need me to do to facilitate things before we go any further?"

"No, we're good." John answered automatically – and then registered what Woolsey had just said…but Woolsey had been in the Gate Room when John had made Lorne Acting Chief Lunatic of this Asylum so how had he kno-?

_Because Woolsey just assumed you were a competent professional who knew what needed doing and would do it as a matter of course…_Shame was not an emotion that sat well with John Sheppard and he found himself momentarily unable to look at the short, balding man in front of him who was clearly suffering from a serious stress headache because he'd been busting a gut trying to help get a certain petulant Colonel's ass out of the fire as fast as possible.

"I realise this is probably the most inane thing in the world to say," Woolsey acknowledged with a small, wry shrug, "but I can only suggest to Colonel Sheppard and Dr McKay that you both try and get a little sleep."

"Aye," concurred Carson briskly, "two's company, three's a crowd, and this place is a sardine tin! Everyone who isna medical staff or a patient, the door's there!" His, _use it or you'll soon __**become**__ patients_ did not need to be said aloud.

"Blidvuk bilsh!" announced Radek suddenly, screwing his face up at John as he uttered the two incomprehensible words.

"What? What?" Rodney vocalised John's alarm for both of them.

Everyone froze and looked towards the Colonel as Radek gestured with his forefinger in a horizontal left-right waggle at John's neck. "The left side of your throat from just under your chin to your collar bone and including your Adam's apple has gone invisible Colonel Sheppard…you look like 'Nearly-Headless' Nick2."

© 2008

C. D. Stewart a.k.a. The Cat's Whiskers

To be continued…

1 Queen, whose leader singer was the late Freddie Mercury and lead-guitarist the perma-permed Brian May, were the rock band who gave us _Bohemian Rhapsody_ and of course, _Another One Bites The Dust_.

2 Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, a.k.a. Nearly-Headless Nick, is a 'character' in the Harry Potter novels; he is one of the resident ghosts of Hogwarts School, specifically the 'House' Ghost of Gryffindor House (the others being Hufflepuff's 'Fat Friar', Ravenclaw's Helena Ravenclaw, daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw, and Slytherin's is the Bloody Baron, who murdered Helena in a moment of blind rage and killed himself in remorse). Nick was executed on 31st October 1492 (All Hallow's Eve or Halloween) but the executioner botched the job and did not properly decapitate him, so Nick can literally pull his head to one side like his neck has a hinge one side. He finds this upsetting as he is unable to join the Ghostly 'Headless Hunt' of similarly executed noblemen because the prerequisite is the ability to detach your head and use it as a football, baseball, etc., or tuck it under your arm. In the film franchise, Nearly Headless Nick is played by John Cleese.


	7. Chapter 7

Atlantis BURN OUT NOT FADE AWAYChapter 7

John blearily blinked his eyes – not waking from genuine sleep because, hey, _progressive invisibility_ issues tended to ixnay that for you…automatically he glanced right and yep, Rodney McKay, PhD et cetera was curled up on the next medical bed, the frown marring his forehead indicating he too was doubtless only snoozing…and…_eew_…drool. John grinned and silently offered any deity around his soul on a plate for a camera, but none materialised out of the cosmic ether.

And there at the end of the bed was…just the tip of John's right service boot – as if his toes and the end of the boot were just floating unattached in the air…

Like the fitful dozing, _that_ had come about from that fun moment that occurred at 21 hundred hours or 9.00pm to civilians. Some universal law dictated that somewhere between any mess hall and any 'sicfirmary' even the most hot, tender, juiciest of foods would inevitably undergo some mystic transformation into 'one order of lukewarm shoe leather with a dollop of drier-than-the-Mojave on the side'. So, John had been glumly sticking to his Jello fruit cup when his heart monitor had suddenly flatlined, informing anyone in the vicinity including John that his heart had apparently just stopped beating.

The look of pure panic on Rodney and Carson's faces had been matched by the feeling that momentarily engulfed John, until he'd heard the frightened thump-thump within his own chest. It transpired that the invisibility had spread across his breastbone and over his heart, and the monitor could pick nothing up. His face grim, Carson had come round to John's right side, checking his visible radial and carotid pulses, then tried to repeat the process on his invisible side, before giving up.

At that point Carson had brought out the big guns; trying to detect John's heartbeat using some of the Ancients' medical equipment in situ, plus Asgard gizmos and even some of the Goa'uld healing devices that the medical personnel had brought with them in a 'if it works, we'll use it' spirit – with the notable exception of something called a sarcophagus, which apparently healed you and even resurrected you, but drove you psychotically homicidal in the process1. None had worked and finally Carson had removed all the other vital signs' monitors at the same time, shaking his head and admitting that his fingers felt like they were touching a 'silicon gel pack' – he felt nothing more than a slight 'coolness'.

"I've always been cool, Doc." John had quipped - okay, but he'd have defied _anyone_ to resist a straight line gifted like that.

Inevitably that resulted in some _Star Trek_ bickering between the two of them; instead of anger, Carson had wryly acted as a real life McCoy between them. He understood their need to vent, but with everyone around he'd had to assert his authority as Chief Medical Officer; once he'd chivvied out the other members of the Atlantis Circus Troupe he could relax be just 'Carson'.

Speaking of whom…_ouch_. Carson was sat at his workstation, legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, arms holding a medical file to his chest; despite his sleep there were dark shadows under the doctor's eyes, indicating he'd fallen asleep in the middle of working – and yet more drool; but worst of all his head lolled in a way that screamed severe crick in the neck; he was going to need one _good _chiropractor when he woke up.

Presumably the adrenaline surge from the heart-monitor moment had refuelled the McKay neural pathways (after all he did seem to subsist mainly on his nerves and caffeine), and who else but Rodney had come up with the 'boot test'. Rodney alone could see John as if he were his normal self, but the scientist had pointed out the fact that the invisibility was affecting John's _clothing_, but _not_ the trolley bed or the medical monitoring equipment Carson had just removed.

In short, why was John 'leaking' - for want of a better phrase, and John had earnestly requested Rodney to find one - invisibility onto his clothes but not onto anything he was resting on or touching? So, if they removed say, one of John's boots, left it off for a set amount of time – fifteen minutes – then replaced it on his foot, if and as it disappeared would give them an exact timeline of how fast the invisibility progressed.

John yawned, feeling exhausted but knowing he would only fall into that restless catnapping which would make his itchy eyes even worse. Maybe if he tried to dim the lights even further than they already were…? He braced his arms on the bed to push himself off, then stopped as he looked around him more carefully.

_What's wrong with this picture…_light – and shadow…there were no shadows. There were no darker patches where computer consoles and chairs – and Carson's large frame – interrupted the light refraction onto walls and floors and work-surfaces. Everywhere John looked remained evenly well-lit, without shadowing or darker/lighter areas. Which meant the problem wasn't the lighting but…

"My eyes?" he whispered.

"Wha'sa?" Rodney stirred, blinking at John with an expression of grumpiness that changed to query as he saw John's rigid frame. "What is it?"

"My eyes itch –"

"_Carson!_"

"-a bit!" John finished. "Don't wake him suddenly you idiot he's got –"

"_Ow!_ _Such_ a crick in the _neck_. Oooh." Carson, who had spasmed awake at Rodney's exclamation of his name, rolled his shoulder and massaged it with his other hand.

"Carson, our favourite Colonel is having trouble seeing," snapped Rodney.

Instantly Carson stood up, his own discomfort forgotten even as John gave Rodney his best military-hard-ass death glare. "My. Eyes. Are. A. Little. _Itchy_. That's _all, McKay!_"

"I don't care – most other things you can do without. Your eyes go on us, and we end up with Colonel Baldy being The Man around here," Rodney retorted, "and a folliclely-challenged double-act between Caldwell and Woolsey running this show? No, thank-you."

"Look, Carson –" John broke off again because Carson hadn't come to his side, but instead had stopped several feet away, staring at John with a peculiar expression that John suddenly realised was Carson attempting _not _to laugh. "What?"

Carson's face was that wooden look of someone struggling to keep their composure and his voice was so carefully modulated his Scottish accent disappeared to the point where he sounded almost as Canadian as McKay. "I'm sorry, Colonel, but the invisibility has spread – your entire face and m-m-most of your head are completely gone. That's why your eyes are itching, presumably."

It would also account for the no-shadows weirdness. He could still see perfectly well, but he was seeing through a…film? Covering? Organic gloop?…of invisibility. But Carson's slight stammer had clued him in. "How _much_ of my head is still visible?"

Jackpot; Carson went pink. "Er…just your scalp hair."

"What?" Just the perpetual bed-head?" Rodney sniggered then scowled. "This is _so_ unfair. Why do I have to be the only one who can see you?"

"Cosmic justice," John sniped. "Okay, Carson, hand me a mirror."

"Er…"

"_Now, _doctor." John put a little black-ops menace into his tone.

"Oh-kaay." With a shrug that didn't hide his amusement, Carson went to a nearby workbench, found a large rectangular hand-mirror and brought to it John.

Taking the long vertical handle, John held it up in front of him and groaned as the mirror showed what everyone, including him, saw. Floating in mid air – or should that be mid-_hair_, was a small rectangular patch of – oh all right, somewhat _over-gelled_ – spiky black hair like a levitating toupee.

Carson made a snorting-gulping noise, "Sorry, Colonel but you've got to admit…"

"This is never mentioned, Carson." John growled, thankful it was the small hours and taking small comfort from the picture that Rodney McKay's own face made since _he_ was unable to see what the fuss was about. "Clear?"

"Absolutely –"

"Hah-HAH!" Rodney sat bolt up right and snapped his fingers, jabbing his hand like a gun barrel at John as he bounded of his trolley-bed and marched over to a com-console.

"Rrrodknee, what're yuh doin?'" Carson tried to intercede.

Rodney cackled with a manic glee that made John's stomach clench. "I'm accessing the internal security monitors of this medical gulag _mein doctor_…and we have…"

For a moment John didn't get it and then –

"Hoohooohooo! Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoooo!"

John scrambled off his own-trolley bed as the security monitors enabled Rodney to 'see' John as everyone – and everything else – did and unlike Carson's discreet giggle Rodney just hooted with laughter. A floating hairpiece – that bobbed up and down violently as John marched across the infirm-whatever and loomed over a certain arrogant Canadian scientist in his most intimidating manner, exuding full-on 'I know a thousand ways to kill you with limp spaghetti, none of which involves choking on the stuff'.

"It's very simple, Doctor McKay," the voice hissed. "These security tapes are going to be accidentally erased, _aren't they Dr Beckett?_" Not waiting for confirmation, it went on, "and absolutely no record of this had better exist, anywhere, ever, else I'll make the Wraith look like teddy bears. Are we clear?"

Rodney nodded silently, his eyes wide – unfortunately the effect was ruined by the fact that his eyes weren't wide with due fear but desperately contained laughter and his teeth were sunk deep into his bottom lip for the same reason.

_I'm doomed_…

© 2008

C. D. Stewart a.k.a. The Cat's Whiskers

To be continued…

1 Author's Note: Remember that in the pilot episode of Atlantis, Sheppard has been exiled to McMurdo for being 'naughty'; he's an Air Force pilot but has no knowledge of the Stargate Program, therefore he has no knowledge of the events of any Stargate SG-1 'episode' other than what he has read, heard mentioned or been told my other Atlantis characters like Rodney McKay and Carson Beckett.


	8. Chapter 8

Dear All

Dear All

Apologies for the delay in this fandom.

Although I am in my 30s, my health is rather fragile, and I am currently recuperating from an operation. My RL is also...zesty...in all the _wrong _ways.

Unfortunately, fan fiction is suffering. I started it as a hobby from my other writing because there were no editorial deadlines and no pressure.

Unfortunately, I am struggling to get back into my groove or reclaim the mojo or whatever.

I won't let fanfic writing become a chore instead of 'fun', and I also don't want to churn out pages of rubbish just to produce some word-count - my readers deserve better and so do the shows I write about, whether past (The Sentinel) or the present (Atlantis & Supernatural).

Everyone from the cast to the crew to the writers on these shows works very hard to bring something great to the viewing public and I believe that every fan-fiction writer whatever their "genre" owes due respect and consideration to the show and characters we write about – we exist because they do, not the other way around.

Likewise, even those who read fan-fiction but don't write it deserve respect and commitment from me. Because of Real Life and health issues my fan-fic reading has often been patchy over the last few years and it makes me realise again just how much time reading anything from a newspaper to a novel can take – if I want readers to give me an hour of their time that they'll never get back and that they could have spent with their partner, or their parents, or their children, or doing something else, I owe them my very best effort, not a fob-off attempt to keep people quiet.

I have lots of ideas, but I just can't maintain the energy or the physical writing time for very long. At the moment I'm too tired to be very motivated. I hope as my health improves the old smoking fingers will come back.

It's very encouraging that people are still interested in my writing and I will try and get back in the saddle asap. It's very frustrating for me as I have lots of part-finished stories in various fandoms on my computer just waiting for that old magic to return. As I recuperate more, hopefully that should happen.

The Cat

I would personally recommend any fan-fiction writer to go to Wolfpup's Den (a The Sentinel fan fiction archive that can also be accessed via Cascade Library) and under fan fiction read Linda Stoops _New Kid in Town_, which is not so much a story as a salutary lesson to all writers about the necessities of showing due respect and giving your writing the commitment it deserves – because Linda never got the chance. Her few stories were fresh, witty, enthusiastic and energetic (much like her), but there were so many wonderful stories (including an entire AU series) she never got to write; she died of ovarian cancer in 2007 in her early 40s. I hope people understand when I say that I love writing fan-fic, but I will not risk my health for it, particularly as I am my family's primary financial support.

My personal website will be down for the foreseeable future but I am hoping to get it back up again before the end of the year, when a lot of my The Sentinel, Supernatural, Angel, Stargate stories, etc., should be restored.


End file.
